


Continue

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, M/M, Slash, sequel of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 12:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19107163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Arthur's death is still with him, five years on.





	Continue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Only One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/852173) by [sasha_b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b). 



> Set in the **Felt Like a Lifetime** universe, in the middle of the sequel, **The Only One.**

The closest town to the farm that wasn’t the _fucking awful city_ was called Ostia – Ostia Antica as Arthur had referred to it – and Lancelot guided his horse carefully around the mounds of sailing nets, fish guts, and abandoned boat equipment as he rode in.

His pack lay heavily against his saddle, but for once – for the first time in a while, actually – he felt calm. Making decisions quickly had never been something he was fond of, but since Arthur had –

He shook his head. It still wasn’t easy. It was horrible. It was lonely, and desperate, and boring, and he soothed his mount’s nose as he slid off and left her with a small boy at an inn he’d frequented before. 

“Feed her. Or you know I can find you,” he said, looming over the stable hand, the heft of Excalibur swinging like a pendulum at his side. He added a scary smile, and the boy gulped and led his horse off, ostensibly to feed her as much grain as she’d take in. Lancelot twisted his lips and ignored the _no need to be rude_ in a well-known voice that echoed in his mind.

The port city was chock full of tourists, fishermen, men in togas, men and women of all classes, people selling everything you could possibly want, and one Sarmatian ex-conscript that was alone and walking through a city in Italy, of all places. But striding down the small lane from the inn that lead to the main street, he was certain that he was doing the thing he needed to do. 

Excalibur was a familiar weight hanging from Arthur’s old sword belt, and he touched the hilt as he walked, the ancient sword still beautiful and well cared for. He didn’t miss his double blades. He did think about them upon occasion, and he feared that they whispered to him from their place under the lake, but that was most likely old soldier’s superstition, and he ignored it.

The sun was out, and there was a crisp bite to the air that had him thinking of apples, and cider, and splitting logs and spending time with the horses and Ligeia and her family and he smiled, rubbing his forehead to stave away the headache that always came with thinking about things he did since Arthur had gone.

Some days it felt like an eternity, and others it was like he was holding Arthur in his arms as if it were yesterday, and he hated that clichéd thought, and he hated Arthur even more for not being there. And then he felt guilty, and he’d take up Excalibur and work with the sword until he poured sweat and could barely lift his arms. 

The smithy he was seeing was right around the corner, and as he turned toward the location, he was forced to stop by a load of men crossing his path, old legionaries by the looks of them, and he bit his lip and clutched at the top of the sword and let them pass. They were carrying their gear, and some wore the old pleated skirt and greaves that he’d seen on Arthur and others in Britain many, many years ago. He caught snatches of discussion - _well past time for a drink_ and _pay’s just come in, let’s find some women_ and _war won’t ever end, you know. They’ll call for us sooner than we’d like_ and

He stood and waited and _there will always be a battlefield!_ when they’d passed, he continued on toward the smithy and gripped at his satchel and forced his feet forward despite the _cast my ashes_ and the _not ever enough to time to tell you_ ricocheting between his ears.

*

“But this is solid silver – and this is copper! You want them smelted together?”

The smithy was aghast, and Lancelot cocked his head and smiled at the confused man. The shop was hot but at least open to the air, and the smoke and bellowing and flame and noise and men sweating and the loud _tink_ of tools on metal was so much like being back at the garrison Lancelot had to blink in order to clear his eyes of memories. “Pretty colors, don’t you think?”

The other man nodded, but the look he gave Lancelot was pure incredulity. “Aye, sir, but a bit – unusual.”

“You will be paid well. Just do as I ask.”

Lancelot had handed over the money they’d agreed on, and had left the shop, turning his back on the man holding Arthur’s cross and his old lion pendant from home. He made his way slowly to the port, watching as ships came and went, listening to the sailors docking and trying not to think that what he was doing was wrong. He knew it wasn’t. He knew Arthur would like the idea, and he shut his eyes and imagined the other man beside him as he leaned on the wharfside and tried to stretch his tired back. The sun baked him and took some of the chill out of the air, and his greying hair tossed in the breeze and Arthur _wasn’t_ there, despite the almost clear feel of his arm on Lancelot’s shoulder, then around his waist.

“Fuck,” Lancelot’s voice was soft enough that only he could hear it, but the burn of tears at the back of his eyes was all too familiar and hated too. The noise of the town drowned out any sound he made, and he let the damned tears fall as he opened his eyes and watched through glittering, wet lashes the motions of people who most likely didn’t know what it was like to try and exist without the love of their lives still with them.

*

He met the smithy at the end of the day, and took the bag with the new thing in it without examining it. He thanked the man, and got out of Ostia _Antica; it’s an old port, Lancelot_ as quickly as he could. He didn’t mind riding at night, but he didn’t want to push his horse too hard, so he stopped a few leagues from the farm and let the animal drink as he sat on an overturned stump and slowly pulled the item he’d had the blacksmith make for him out of his saddle bag.

It was dark, but the night was clear as it typically was close to winter, and he lifted the new war band to the light from the moon and examined it.

_Pretty colors, don’t you think?_

He rolled his lips inward and hunched forward, turning it over and over in his hands. He could see it sparkle, although the texture was matte due to the combining of cheap and expensive materials. 

His sister had loved the copper tone of the lion she’d given him, although the silver of Arthur’s father’s cross was worth twenty of the old pendants. He’d thought the smithy might faint when he’d been asked to melt them together, but looking at it more closely, Lancelot could see the blending of the two metals and thought, despite what some might see as flaws, it _was_ rather lovely and knew that Arthur would agree. He sat straighter, and slipped the thing on.

It pushed to his elbow like traditional, old war bands were supposed to, and he held it to the moonlight, and it chinked a bit as it settled in the spot where it should fit.

Lancelot had to give it to the blacksmith; he knew his craft. The moon, high and full, shone on the new piece of jewelry, and Lancelot _damn your fucking god, Arthur!_ bit his lip _hard_ as he started to weep silently, again. His horse wandered a bit, drinking from the clear, cold stream Lancelot sat by, alone, wearing a bracelet that was all that was left of the thing he held most dear.

*

He sat out in the orchard the next morning; he’d made it back to the farm with plenty of time to sleep, but had tossed and turned and kept looking at the war band he knew he’d wear every day from now until the day he joined Arthur in death. There were days when he thought that might be soon, and some days he thought tremulously he might make it a bit more. Days like when Ligeia visited him, days like when Jols turned the sheep out in to the pasture and began the annual grooming, days like today when the apples were ripe fit to burst and the mist on the ground was light and the air smelled like mulch and greenery and he could hear animals in the barn waking.

His sleeve hid the new jewelry, but he touched it through the cloth, and finally stood, his knees popping – he laughed as he was reminded of the sound of ballista flying from the catapults he’d seen while in Britain. 

“I am old, Arthur,” he sighed. “And I miss you.”

Heading back into the house, he greeted the cook and the rest of the household staff, and had his breakfast, feeling the band like a vise around his bones.

*

Lancelot was sweating despite the chill in the air, the horse under him a new gelding he’d been trying to break in for several weeks. The animal was finally starting to listen to his direction, and he praised it as he rode into the yard, promising plenty of apples and feed as the young thing bucked a bit in joy. He dismounted and handed the reins to Colin, the youngest of Jols’ five sons, and shoved his damp hair back off his forehead, turning to enter the house. He started as he almost ran into Ligeia, who was waiting for him near the gate to the main property. 

Her hair was grey like his, but her beauty shone through still, and after regaining his composure, he stepped up to her and kissed her cheek in greeting. Her eyes went to his right arm, and before he could say her name she spoke.

“What is this?”

 _Fuck._ His tunic was rolled up and the war band was in plain view. 

The sun was brilliant at its zenith and he really did _not_ want to answer delicate questions outside, sweating and feeling awkward. Wiping a hand over his face, he turned her toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”

Without waiting, he entered the house and he could hear her long sheath dress brush her feet as she came after him. Her hair was pinned up, and he noted with only a bit of distress she wore the combs he’d brought from Sarmatia that Arthur had kept for him all these years.

He shooed the staff out of the kitchen, and after taking a long draught of water, he faced her as she sat at the long trestle table. The cooking fires were dampened, but the room remained warm, and he shoved off the counter and pushed a few of the windows open to let in the breeze – and to avoid answering her question.

“Lancelot,” she finally said again. “What’s that on your arm?”

“It’s a gift,” he answered, crossing his arms and leaning against the table, looking down at her. He touched it without realizing it, and she rose and held out her hand. “May I see?”

He was surprised at how hard it was to take it off. He slipped it from his arm and handed it to her, and she held it up in the light from the windows and turned it back and forth. Her long fingers were delicate, but strong, and Lancelot was struck again by the odd fact that this woman was alone in the world – but she wasn’t. She had him, and her daughter and her son in law.

And she had Arthur’s memory. She was –

“A gift from whom?”

He rubbed his lips and accepted the band back from her. “Arthur,” he answered after a moment. “And me.”

She looked at him, the sun coming in through the windows catching the remaining gold in her hair and making it spark. She looked at his chest, where the lion pendant had sometimes hung. She looked at his pocket, where he carried Arthur’s cross. She wet her lips and cocked her head, reaching out and touching the band where it lay on his arm. “Did you find the blacksmith I recommended?”

His smile was real and tired. “Aye, lady. He did what I asked. Although I thought he might lose his faculties when I directed him to make this.” The band chinked against his tunic, and he thought that tonight he’d take a jewelry brush to it and really make it shine.

“It’s lovely,” she said. She ran a finger lightly over it, and then took his fingers in hers. “It must have been hard to do, as well.”

“I have felt for several hours now that I am the only person in the world to know such loss,” he bit off, not expecting the vehemence and veracity of the words. “And I know that is not any kind of truth. But – ” he let go of her hand and scrubbed his eyes, leaving them red and dry, “ – I haven’t cried for him in many years, Ligeia. It hurt to do so. More than I remember.”

She smiled and it was bitter, but he knew she loved him and understood. “You are not alone in your loss,” she answered. “I loved him, too.

“But, I also know yours is a different thing, and I cannot be there with you.”

She turned to go, but came back quickly and kissed him on the mouth, fiercely and so unexpected he almost fell backward against the table. Her mouth wasn’t Arthur’s, and her hands and touch weren’t Arthur’s, but she was his friend and he raised a hand and cupped the back of her head briefly.

“I love _you_ , too, you great, stupid man,” she whispered onto his lips, and she was gone in a swirl of linen and wool and Lancelot smiled and rested his fingers on the war band, the warmth of it as comforting as his memories, and his life.

*

The day after Lancelot died, Ligeia stood at the foot of the bed that he and Arthur had shared. Her black clothing was oppressive, but it was appropriate, and so she had done it.

She had no more grief to give for Lancelot, for she’d given it all when Arthur had died, and she’d given it all when Lancelot had come back from the Black Sea, broken and different. He’d lived the last six years of his life after Arthur’s death the way he’d been able to, and she liked to think it was a decent and fulfilling life. She knew it had been, as much as Lancelot had been able to live it.

She was alone, now, but she was still alive and could carry on the memory of them and their story and by the gods, but she would make sure it was passed on through her family. These men had been good, and also bad and made mistakes and had loved and tried to do their best. It was what humans did, and while Ligeia loved fairy stories and tales of derring-do, she also loved real tales, and the story of Arthur and Lancelot was as real as they could come.

And then she laughed out loud, for she was romanticizing them, and they would both ridicule her for it. She turned to leave, but something shining in the dim light caught her eye, and moving to the side of the bed, she bent and picked up the object she’d seen.

Lancelot’s smelted war band was still gorgeous and ugly and she held it, wondering if she should give it to Jols to bury with its owner.

_The two men each had a talisman of great power, you see, that they carried always, throughout their lives. When the noble lord passed from this earth, the knight had the lord’s talisman and his own fused into one simple arm-band, and he wore it every day until he too was taken from this life._

Ligeia blinked; she’d always been fanciful, and wordy and fond of stories. _This_ tale would make a great story. And a way that she could live again with her lovely commander and his knight.

Her daughter Olivia was pregnant with her first child, and Ligeia knew then and there she’d not give the band to Jols. She had a burgeoning idea of what to do with it, and she had the feeling Lancelot would agree with her. And even if he didn’t, he would have learned to understand her reasoning. 

She left the room, her black mourning veil trailing after her, the brightness of the copper and silver piece of jewelry that had been worn last by an old, cranky, beautiful ex-conscript clutched in her hands, its story not finished yet.

~

**Author's Note:**

> I love this verse, even though I think Felt Like ... needs to be rewritten. One of these days I'll get to editing it. It was lovely to see this version of Lancelot and Arthur again, and despite her not being super fleshed out in this piece, I really like Ligeia in the previous stories too.
> 
> I am including this in the 15th Anniversary KA celebration and hope to do at least one more piece before the anniversary. You don't necessarily have to have read Felt Like or TOO to understand this, but you might like it more if you do.
> 
> Thank you so much for those who have continued to read my KA stuff over the years; you guys have made such a difference in my life, creative and otherwise. I hope Arthur and Lance will continue to visit me for as long they can.
> 
> Please feel free to participate in this Ficabration and I look forward to other pieces! 
> 
> xo


End file.
